


The Letter

by MyBlueBooks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Anal Sex, Discussion of Abortion, M/M, Mpreg, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyBlueBooks/pseuds/MyBlueBooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding himself pregnant isn't the real problem. The problem is that neither seems to want it. And neither wants to do something about it. Finding himself at a crossroads, Sherlock has to take a decision alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unwanted

**Author's Note:**

> OK... my first Mpreg. Just... let me know if you liked it. Not an English speaker. Apologies in advance for my mistakes.

Sherlock envied John so much.

John Hamish Watson was a typical, common, mortal, every-day man. Everyone could know it by just looking at him; knitted jumpers, well ironed shirts, blue jeans, brown shoes, neat haircut, tea lover, jam addicted watching a crap telly show about a mad man in a blue box calling himself 'The Doctor'.

Sherlock would never understand how a man can travel in a police booth, call himself 'The Doctor' and regenerate.

But there was John, sitting on his armchair, with his legs stretched, a relaxed expression on his face, a big cup of earl grey in one hand and a toast painted with a generous amount of strawberry jam in the other. There was he, watching a childish TV show with a generous amount of strawberry jam in both corners of his lips. There was he, so relaxed.

There was John, clueless of what Sherlock, his partner for a couple of months now, had to tell him.

And there was Sherlock sitting in front of him, with both hands glued together under his chin. He wasn't even toying with the words. He knew what he had to say. He had calculated the answer to his word —and somehow— Sherlock had planned what was to be of _them_ for the next months—or at least for the following thirty six weeks.

The man in front of him looked so placid, so relaxed, so happy with himself. The cup of tea was still hot, the toast were just as he liked them. For God's sake, even the jam was his favourite one. John liked to have his tea sweet. John liked sweet things. John was sweet.

John will understand.

Sherlock turned the telly off and he earned a very angry, yet confused look. There was a deep frown between John's eyebrows and he was still chewing when he tried to speak. Apparently it was the 50th anniversary of that Doctor Who show.

But Sherlock wanted to get over it.

"I'm pregnant," he said, not hesitating any more.

He heard John swallowing hard.

And his own heart pounding as hard as it has ever done so since he could recall.

* * *

Loving John Watson was something that had to be taken out of his brain and out of his heart —somehow— to be checked and proven —somehow— over a table, under a microscope, within test tubes, scientifically. Sherlock could no longer find a proper explanation as to why there were moments in which he needed so badly to be caressed, kissed, loved and looked after by John Watson.

What did John Watson have to make him feel useless when he was not around?

This never happened before. Sherlock Holmes was completely fine wandering around the world by himself. He could sleep, eat, clean himself, breathe, just be himself without him and yet, once John Watson appeared in his life, everything he had known had no sense anymore. His entire world had been turned upside down and there was no turning back to the old days in which Sherlock Holmes was just one man.

Now if you pronounce the name 'Sherlock Holmes', you immediately think of him. You immediately think of 'John Watson'.

But that is just the visible part of the iceberg—not the main problem here.

When John Watson showed Sherlock Holmes what was a kiss — a real kiss, certain detective wanted to kiss not only lips but also the skin everywhere the ex Army doctor will let him; forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, neck, chest, hands, arms, and then he moved downwards and John Watson had to teach Sherlock what love was.

The night Sherlock Holmes discovered sex, he realised there was a new world he had never considered before. There was a new world filled with new feelings, new sensations, new touches, new movements, new sounds and orgasms. Sherlock Holmes also learnt his heart could pound harder within his chest every time John Watson was around.

The night John Watson took Sherlock Holmes' body, he realised certain detective was new in this thing people call _sex_ , and not only that, but he was as much inexperienced as a teenager in their first time. Though Sherlock Homes was thirty six years old, John Watson realised his lover had never touched any other body but his.

Sherlock Holmes knew the basics because hell, we all know babies don't come from Paris. Yet he was as scared as the most virginal girl you could ever find. But John Watson was such a patient man. Something you have to know about this man, about John Watson, is that the man lives to give people the pleasure they need, the pleasure they want. He won't never, ever, rush you. He will, always — and most of the times, teach you what is to love.

The first time someone took Sherlock Holmes' breath away, was on his own bed. Who did this? John Watson. How did he do it? He was between Sherlock's long, trembling legs, caressing his cheek with one hand and whispering to his ear to take deep breaths because the pain was going to pass soon. Because after the pain of a first time, waves of pleasure are to come.

Always.

The first time Sherlock begged for mercy he was in all fours biting his lower lip so hard that there were little blood stains on the sheets, and John Watson was holding his hips still so he was able to fuck him in the correct angle—so he could hit that soft spot inside Sherlock.

_'Have mercy.'_

Twice.

_'Have mercy.'_

John thrust deeper. He had a hand stroking the hardness between Sherlock's legs as his other hand was on the detective's throat.

The transition from being friends to being partners—boyfriends, if I must, started just after that moment when, after teaching Sherlock Holmes what was love, John kissed his lips and said: _'I want you'._

_'Are you sure I am what you want?'_

_'I want all of you. Everything.'_

If you imagined they slept together every night, shared baths and quick showers, quick pecks while queuing to get a coffee at the shop downstairs or if they even held hands, your are very wrong my friend. Since the first moment, Sherlock stated he didn't want kisses, sometimes affectionate nicknames and sex out of the four walls of his room—or their flat more likely.

And that's how it worked; they slept in their rooms respectively. They carried on with their lives. There were nights in which Sherlock would sit next to John, and with a deep kiss or sometimes pressing a hand on the most intimate place of the ex soldier's body, he would let him know what he wanted. They would lock inside Sherlock's room and long sighs, moans, deep kisses and an awful lot more could be heard. And as soon as it was done, a _'Goodnight'_ would be enough for John to understand he had to take his clothes and go to his own room.

It was them.

That's how their loved worked.

And John Watson knew it was not what he had dreamt of when he was a boy and imagined having a sweet wife with whom he will sleep next to every night. He didn't have that sweet wife cooking his favourite dishes once he got home after work. He didn't have that sweet wife smiling every time he was tired, in an attempt to make him feel better. John Watson realised he was reaching his forties and he was not married to a sweet woman. He was in a relationship with a dark haired man who couldn't cook, nor smile.

But he was fine with it.

John Watson was fine with the life he had.

* * *

Five months, three weeks, and five days later after sharing the bed for the first time with John Watson, Sherlock Holmes was alone in the kitchen and he was staring at the blood sample he had. It was his own blood. He had to get that experiment done as soon as possible because he had to know —as soon as possible— if what he was thinking was right. Knowing before the third month was always the best.

It was for the best if he wanted to get rid of it.

Sherlock stared at the test tube filled with his blood. The reactive showed him what his theories had been suggesting for a couple of days.

The test was positive.

As the three pregnancy tests he had bought from the chemist's.

Finding himself pregnant was not a surprise. It was a very common thing now.

Sherlock started to think he might be pregnant when he started feeling something different about himself. For a week he couldn't stand the tea John religiously made for him every morning. He had terrible headaches and his mood swings were, if they had been terrible to anyone, they were insufferable now. Fainting in a crime scene and feeling dizzy after walking up the stairs was not common.

And that night, that night in which they were very much lazy to go and buy condoms, Sherlock knew was the night they had conceived it.

It was still printed in his memory.

John was behind him, he was taking him hard, just as much hard as Sherlock had asked him to. Both were randy. It always happened after a good case. It always happened when Sherlock was injured, when he had fallen or when he had been beat or punched on. No sooner had they got home than John was cleaning his wounds when Sherlock suggested he didn't need to be taken care of —at least not in that way.

He moved his hips backwards and felt John filling him completely. He could feel every inch of his John inside him.

John's seed was warm, as his kisses, as his touches, as his words.

As his love.

* * *

John took a deep breath and put his cup back to its respective saucer. For the first time, Sherlock feared him. The consulting detective felt his lip twitch as he looked at John's eyes, his lips, the wrinkles on his face.

And the words to come.

Because Sherlock Holmes couldn't read minds —yet.

He could see facts. And deduce.

"I don't want children."

There was a huge miscalculation of the facts. John Watson liked sweet tea, sweet jam and therefore he was sweet. He was tender. Every child loved John. He took for granted John loved children.

John Watson was reaching his forty and for what Sherlock could always tell, John was broody. He had always been. That's why everyone gave him pitiful looks when they realised John was dating a man and not a woman. The society was still used women were the only ones who could conceive children and bear them. Sherlock thought so too.

Until the day he realised he was pregnant.

But John didn't want it.

"I don't want it either," said Sherlock, nonchalantly.

John looked down and then he met Sherlock's grey eyes. "Why are you telling me?"

_Because I miscalculated you, John. I thought you would want it. I thought you would want it as much as I do._ That's what Sherlock thought. And that's what he didn't say.

Sherlock picked up his violin and turned to face the windows. "I'm getting rid of it."

John turned the TV on again.


	2. Unloved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for my mistakes.

No way he was giving it to Mycroft. How could he even suggest it? Mycroft raising a child?

Really?

Sherlock more or less deduced the topic of conversation when his brother arrived at 221 B Baker Street and oh, the kettle just boiled. After a cup of tea Mycroft said he didn't need to get rid of it because he could take it. _Why?_ was asked and Mycroft gave plenty of reasons. However, the one that really surprised the detective was Mycroft saying that what he had inside him was a _Holmes_. That what he had inside him was his, therefore, a Holmes, something that deserved to live.

_You oughtn't get rid of it merely because John doesn't want it. It's your body. It's your choice, not his._ _You should get rid of him than your own offspring._

_Your own offspring_. What a way to put it, Sherlock thought.

_If you don't want it, I'll raise it. You won't have to see it._ Mycroft assured him he would raise it, give it everything it may need. The politician said he will never have to see it if he didn't want to.

Sherlock stared blankly at his brother. "It's my choice."

"Are you sure it is, Sherlock?"

_No._ "Yes."

"And doctor Watson's saying has nothing to do with it?"

_Yes._ "No."

Mycroft sipped the last of his tea and sighed. "I can have doctor John Watson taken right now and in two hours you can have his ashes on a vase to do as you like. I read your blog thing about ashes. Could be useful."

"Got your men on him right now, don't you?"

"Of course."

Sherlock chuckled but said nothing.

"Has he ever said he loved you?"

_No._ "Not your business."

"What would mummy say -"

"-if she were here," Sherlock finished his brother's sentence. "But she isn't. She's dead. She would agree with me that I can't have it. I'm not going to be a father. This isn't mine."

It was his. But it wasn't only his. It was John's too. It was not a Holmes. It was a Watson. And yet John didn't want it.

Placing a cold hand over his slightly swollen stomach that night, Sherlock looked to the opposite side of his bed and a single tear rolled down his face.

* * *

The murderer was escaping. How dull. Why they always ended up doing that? It was far too obvious they would always be caught. They had already identified him. There was no use running. But it was good exercise. The doctor said he shouldn't run or do anything of the sort or there could be complications.

However, Sherlock found himself fighting the murderer and then being kicked on the stomach.

One, two, three... almost five kicks on his stomach.

_That should be enough_ , Sherlock thought.

"You bastard," John gasped as he pushed the man away from Sherlock and punched him enough times that the murdered fell unconscious to the ground.

_Remarkable._ "Call Lestrade. Tell him we got the man."

"You OK?"

_No._ "Yes."

John helped Sherlock to his feet and tried to take his hand, but the detective rejected his touch. "Call Lestrade."

Back in the flat, it wasn't until he was out of the shower when he found John sitting on his bed. His blue eyes were on his. Days ago Sherlock knew he would have kissed the doctor, caress his body and ask him to make love to him.

But that would have _only_ happened days ago.

Not now.

"Why you did that?"

"Why I did what?"

"You let him hurt you."

_Yeah, and?_ The detective shrugged and put on a pair of pants. He was giving his back to the doctor while he looked for his pyjamas on his drawers. "We caught him."

"You know five different fighting techniques."

"Six," the detective corrected. "He wanted to escape. We run after him for more than five streets. I knew he would fight for his freedom and I needed some punches." Sherlock turned to face the doctor for the first time and John's eyes met Sherlock's bruised stomach and chest.

John frowned. "Jesus Christ!"

"I was merely taking care of the issue."

"What? For God's sake! You've bruises all over your -"

"This was far more easier."

"It's not safe!"

"Isn't it?"

"No, it isn't!" John said exasperated. "God... are you OK? How are you feeling?"

Sherlock pointed at the door. "Leave."

"Sherlock -"

"I don't want to talk about this," the detective said, his voice cold. "Leave me _alone_."

The following day they were having breakfast together and as soon as their landlady left them alone, Sherlock let John know he didn't want his kisses, his touches or his love any more. That they should be friends again. That all that had happened between them had been a mistake.

John said _yes_ to everything and they drank two more cups of tea.

* * *

A month later, John was seeing a woman he had met in a pub. The detective had to get used to see the doctor spending long minutes inside the bathroom before leaving on another date he had.

And now it was too late to get rid of it.

He had tried everything. The murderer kicking his stomach was worthless. Falling down the stairs was stupid. Self starvation and sleep deprivation didn't help at all. All the opposite because in fact every time he tried not to eat, he would eat three times what he would normally have for breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner. And not sleeping for a whole night made him sleep an entire day afterwards.

Nothing was worth doing any more when Mrs Hudson found out and if it wasn't because he was pregnant, he knew she would have slapped him hard across the face. Or maybe something worse.

_How can you do that? It's your child_ she said one morning after John had gone to work. Sherlock gave her three reasons and none of them were true. Mrs Hudson refused to believe him. She said it was his and even though John didn't want it, he should keep it.

_And how am I meant to raise it when I'm sure he or she will always remind me of John?_

The thing was that not even Mycroft or Mrs Hudson could understand how he chose John over their child.

_I can't have this child alone. I'm useless. Sleeping and eating are mundane, not worth my time. I won't remember I have to feed a baby. It will die if I keep it._

Mrs Hudson cried.

She cried more than he.

And two days later she told him about something called closed adoption.

"And why is that you want to give your baby up for adoption?"

_Because John doesn't want it. Because John doesn't love me any more. Because what would I do with a child alone?_

_I'm scared._ "I don't want it."

The couple sitting across him gave him a reassuring smile. _Idiots_. "Um... according to these papers you and the baby are very healthy."

"Yes."

"We'll... like to know more about the father," the woman said shyly, soon regretting her mistake. "Um, sorry. About the other father I mean."

_Stupid. He's an idiot._ "He is a medical man. A soldier. Good physique. Healthy. High IQ level." Sherlock didn't understand why they wanted to know something that was already written in adoption papers. He even provided them with a picture of John.

She smiled at him lovingly and Sherlock had no other choice but to fake a smile. "We'll... like to know why is that you don't want the baby."

"He doesn't."

"But do you?" The man asked. "Do you want it?"

_Yes._ "No."

"Are you sure?"

_No._ "Yes."

Both gave him pitiful looks. "You can't imagine what you're giving us, Sherlock."

"No, I can't. I must look more like a worm but the size of a rat." The detective said and soon realised it something was a bit not good to say.

"We'll be very happy to adopt your baby. We'll pray for it. And for you too." The woman said kindly.

_Idiots._

* * *

A month later the doctor asked Sherlock if he wanted to know the gender. He refused to know.

The adopting parents were very happy to know their future baby was healthy. They accepted Sherlock's decision and asked him to tell them any news about the baby.

Sherlock told them it kicked. But he never told them the baby kicked when John was around or when he thought of John far too much that even his heart beat faster. The baby kicked and sometimes he couldn't sleep. The baby actually kicked so much to be so little inside him that Sherlock found out that playing his violin had a soothing effect.

The baby always stopped kicking when he played his violin.

The detective never told them about the cravings he had, such as John's tea and his favourite jam. Soon the kitchen cabinets were full of John's favourite tea brand and jam but the doctor didn't seem to notice.

It was terrifying to go to the shops and walk past the nappies section, see mothers and fathers buying, consulting each other, mothers complaining after sore nipples and pains that eventually come after pregnancy. For that the detective considered himself lucky because men could have babies but they still couldn't breastfeed. Not like he was going to anyway.

The baby was his for as long as it remained inside him. Once it was born, Sherlock knew he would have to let it go.

* * *

Sherlock was five months pregnant when John realised he had never got rid of it. Apparently the girl from the pub was history and now it was Mary Morstan.

_Ha._ Sherlock laughed. Without even meeting her he could tell it was something long term.

"You're keeping it."

_I wish._ "Yes."

Without even looking, the detective could feel John's eyes on him, scanning his body, wondering why he never noticed. "I thought you, uh... had, you know -"

"Had an abortion? No," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "I'm giving it up for adoption."

No more words were said.

Sherlock wished John had said something.

And John regretted not saying anything at all.

* * *

It was a true relief that no one else noticed his swollen stomach and the sudden weight gain. It was also a good thing that it was winter and that he could wear his long coat and that way no one saw his growing belly. Not even John. Because no one but himself had the right to feel and see his belly.

When having long baths, the detective placed his long hands on his growing stomach and tried to imagine what it will look like. _Will it look more like John? Will it look more like me? Will it have blond or dark hair?_

_Is it a girl or a boy?_

_I wish your father wanted you as much as I do. But I can't have you alone. I'm not good for you._

A kick.

_I hope you forgive me one day._

A kick.

Three months without John. Three months ago Sherlock decided it was for the best to break up and be friends again.

But they weren't even friends. They no longer had long talks in which they would talk about everything. They shared breakfasts, occasionally a lunch or dinner... but Sherlock was taking less cases and John was going out more and more and that Morstan woman was official now.

"I love you." The detective whispered.

A kick.

* * *

Seven moths.

The woman adopting the baby suggested he could write something. She said she would love to keep the letter for the baby to read when he or she was older. Old enough to understand.

It all started when signing the last papers and documents, they told Sherlock he should considerate his choice.

"I'm giving you the gift of life and you want me to considerate this?" _Sarcasm._

"It's your right. If before or after the delivery you want to keep it," the woman said. "Everything will be all right."

Sherlock signed the papers without hesitating. "I don't want pictures or videos or emails saying how beautiful or how good at sports he or she is. It's yours as soon as it's taken out of me."

But the idea of a letter wasn't entirely bad.

It was a slightly warm night when Sherlock found himself writing a letter to the baby he was carrying inside him and that he will never see.

_You,_

_I'm writing this because your adoptive mother..._

Not a good start.

Sherlock bit his biro and gave it another try.

_I don't know how to address you,_

_I'm the man who has you inside me now. Whatever your adoptive parents tell you, just know I preferred to give you to them rather than having an abortion. Had it been differently, I would have kept you._

_They were the less pair of idiots I found. You can thank me for that._

No.

Another. He knew he had to write another.

_Dear baby,_

_I'm one of your fathers..._

"What's that?"

"A letter."

"I can lend you my computer if you want."

Sherlock chuckled bitterly. "I don't have it's email address yet. And I highly doubt it has one already."

"Hmm?"

"It's a letter for the baby," Sherlock said, the word _baby_ easily coming out of his mouth. "the adoptive mother insisted." The detective admitted and folded the paper and put it into a envelope.

John's eyes were on Sherlock's. "What are they like?"

"A pair of idiots. The best I found, though."

It was the first time they were talking about something related to the baby. Actually, it was the first time Sherlock was addressing to it as a _baby_.

John glued his hands together and looked at Sherlock. He was wearing his pyjamas but now his tee was far too small for him. The material was stretching for the swollen stomach. And suddenly, the doctor realised Sherlock had fuller, healthier, blushed cheeks.

Strange.

"Sherlock, I think we should talk -"

" _Ugh_."

"What? You OK?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and placed a hand on his belly. "It's kicking."

"Can I... can I feel it?"

_Yes._ "No." _It hurts far too much now._ "I need to lie down."

"Yes, of course," John stood up. "Shall I - "

"Please."

John took Sherlock's hand. He soon noticed he had such warm hands. The doctor remembered they were always cold to the touch but now they were warm.

They walked side by side to Sherlock's room. It had been months since they had last been there together and for both it felt like ages. Whilst helping Sherlock to get to bed, John's eyes found a pile of ultrasounds, scans, medical examinations' results and a bag.

"Um... you sure you OK?"

The detective turned to one side so his swollen stomach would be on the mattress and the weight wouldn't bother him later. _No._ "Yes." Sherlock closed his eyes and instinctively placed a hand on his stomach. "You can leave now."

No more words were spoken that night. Sherlock immediately fell asleep and in his dreams, he and John had a golden haired boy who liked Doctor Who. A boy who had the most loveliest blue eyes and a wide smile. He giggled lots all the time.

It was a dream.

The detective forgot the letter on the table. John found it.

But he didn't read it.


	3. Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter (cries). Thanks for reading!

_It was a sunny morning. Everything was green. Fresh. There were birds singing. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling deeply, taking the plants, the flowers and all those scents in. He really liked the country. He knew he could get used to it._

_Sherlock knew he could get used to anything if it was for him._

_For his baby._

_"Da!"  
_

_There was a baby of a bit more than a year, maybe two, crawling on the grass. He had pale skin but the most beautiful blue eyes Sherlock had ever seen. The boy had faint curls and golden hair. He was sucking his thumb and the detective chuckled because he had already told him countless times before not to do it any more._

_"What is it?"_

_The baby pointed at the hives the detective kept on the garden. He really wished he could have more but it was dangerous to keep bees when he had a baby. There were a lot of things Sherlock wished he could have... but he came first. His baby would always come first._

_Even in his own heart._

_There was a man Sherlock wished he had. But that man didn't want him. John didn't want their baby._

_The detective smiled. "Those are my bees. They all work very hard to produce honey."_

_The small child, now in his arms, looked at him, perplexed. "'ney?"_

_"Yes, they make honey. And you like honey, don't you?"_

_"Yes!"_

_"That's my boy," Sherlock said and kept on walking around the garden. "You like it here?"_

_"Yes!"_

_"I like it too. I think we'll be very happy living here... just you and me."_

_"'ove you, da!"_

_Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss to his son's forehead. "I love you too, Hamish."_

Bad dream. It was all a dream. A bad dream.

The detective pressed a hand to his swollen stomach.

Breathe. It was a dream.

_It was a dream._

* * *

Days hardly passed without him remembering that dream.

A decision was made the very same day he got into a cab in the middle of the night to have his child.

All by himself.

The doctors said the umbilical cord was around the baby's neck. There was no time to lose and suddenly the detective was given medication and he could no longer feel his baby.

_I need to feel it. I need to feel it kicking, moving. I need to feel my baby._

The doctors said it was the anaesthesia. Outside the room were they, the adoptive parents, eagerly waiting for that baby that was minutes from coming to the world.

But inside the room there was no one next to him. No one was there to take his hand and tell him everything was going to be all right. Even though it had already been arranged that as soon as the baby was taken out of him it will be automatically given to the adoptive parents, Sherlock had already taken a decision.

And just when Sherlock decided to change his mind, his whole world shattered.

* * *

Days before John said he wanted their baby.

 _Oh, really?_  "Why?"

"Because it's my child."

"It had always been yours. Why you want it now?"

"Sherlock -"

"You said you didn't want children."

The detective felt John tensing. "I'm sorry."

 _Damn you._  "I'm giving it up for adoption."

"You can't."

John said he was the father too and therefore, he had rights. The doctor said that if they could not talk and solve this like civilised people he would get a lawyer. John was determined to take things as far as he could in order to keep the baby and not give it up for adoption to people he didn't know who they were and even lawsuits were mentioned.

Sherlock said it was his body, therefore, his choice.

John argued it was his too. That this was not a question of whether having an abortion or not. This was a question of keeping the baby once it was born.

"I don't want to give it to them," Sherlock said, tears clouding his eyes. "But I can't have it alone. And you don't love me any more."

With tears in his eyes, John whispered, " _You_  said you didn't love me any more."

* * *

He asked to see it. He said he needed to hold it, to see it. To feel it. Sherlock wanted to press his child against his chest, kiss his head, his face, feel his scent. Sherlock needed to see his child.

And as soon as it was given to him, he cried. It was beautiful. It was the most beautiful baby Sherlock had ever seen. And it was his. His. Sherlock pressed kisses to his baby's face and little hands. He cried. He left tears on his baby's face. He loved it. God, he loved it so much. The detective smiled because all his deductions were right, his baby was beautiful. And it was a boy.

He was the father of a boy.

But he was dead.

* * *

It is said you don't know what you got until it's gone.

Nothing. He had nothing. No clothes, no nappies, he hadn't even thought of a name for his baby.

For their baby.

It was a baby boy who was born in the middle of a cold night. He was little but had very long fingers and toes. He had soft golden hair. When he and John held it in their arms, they cried. He had John's hair and nose and Sherlock's lips and ears.

But neither of them could tell the colour of their baby's eyes.

 _I let a man kick my stomach. I starved myself. I fell down the stairs. I smoked. I tried everything to lose you but you stayed inside me. You fought for your life. You lived. And just when I decide to keep you, you die._ _Is it because you didn't want me to be your father?_ _Please baby, my dear son, forgive me. Please, forgive me._

_Please, forgive us._

"Don't cry," John whispered as he pressed a soft kiss to the detective's forehead.

"Why, John?" Sherlock could no longer keep the tears and buried his face in John's chest. "Why our baby?"

John cried because that was all he could do. "I don't know, Sherlock."

Sherlock destroyed that letter. And both decided to write another one  _together._

This one was buried with their baby.

_Dear baby boy,_

_You are the most beautiful thing we have ever seen._

_We wish things had been different. We both wish we could go back in time and change all the things that happened from your conception until this moment._

_We wish you were alive so we could see what colour your eyes are. We wish we could hear you crying, see you growing up, laughing._ _But wherever you are now, we know you must be in a better place._ _There's a new star in the sky tonight._

_Please baby, forgive this idiotic pair of fathers you have.  
_

__You are our baby boy and we will always love you_ a_ _nd we will always remember you,_

_Your dad Sherlock and your papa John.  
_

* * *

"Oh God."

"Would you stop it?"

"It's easy! You have the instructions there written for you. Why is taking you so long?"

John sighed tiredly. "I'm doing my best, OK?"

" _Please_."

"Sherlock!"

The detective rolled his eyes  _again_. "Even _I_  could do it better."

"Oh really? Why don't you come here and do it yourself, uh?"

"I'm pregnant."

John smiled. "You weren't pregnant when you ran down the street because apparently there was a crime scene, were you?"

"Oh, shut up.  _You_  are the one who has to assemble the cot," Sherlock said between mouthfuls of toast and jam. "Besides, must I remind you I'm carrying your child?"

"Of course you don't," the doctor left the tools on the floor. "You've got jam on your lips," he kissed Sherlock's lips clean and said, "You must remind me of something else."

Sherlock smiled. "I love you."

"I love you."

John placed a hand on Sherlock's stomach and felt their baby kicking. "Anxious for your own room, uh?"

"Of course it is," Sherlock chuckled. "John! We're having this baby in less than ten weeks and you haven't painted the room!"

"We have time."

"What if it comes early?"

"It won't."

"What if it comes after the fixed date?"

John chuckled. "It won't."

"John -"

"Shut up. Go and lie down. Doctor's orders." John said and pointed at the detective. "And no sulking!"

* * *

It was a sunny morning. Everything was green. Fresh. There were birds singing. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling deeply, taking the plants, the flowers and all those scents in. He really liked the country. He knew he could get used to it.

Sherlock knew he could get used to anything if it was for them.

For his baby and John.

"Da!"

There was a child of about two years crawling on the grass. He had pale skin but the most beautiful blue eyes Sherlock had ever seen. The boy had faint curls and golden hair. He was sucking his thumb and the detective chuckled because he had already told him countless times not to do it any more.

"What is it?"

The baby pointed at the hives the detective kept on the garden. He really wished he could have more but it was dangerous to keep bees now that he had a baby. There were a lot of things Sherlock wished he could have... but he came first. His son would always come first.

Even in his own heart.

John came second, obviously.  _  
_

The detective smiled. "Those are my bees. They all work very hard to produce honey."

The small child, now in his arms, looked at him, perplexed. "'ney?"

"Yes, they make honey. And you like honey, don't you?"

"Yes!"

"That's my boy," Sherlock said and kept on walking around the garden. "You like it here?"

"Yes!"

"I like it too. I think we'll be very happy living here... just you, John and me."

"'oney!"

"Honey, baby," John said stepping into the garden and handing his son his bottle. "Can you say 'honey', son?"

"Honey!"

John chuckled proudly. "That's better."

Both men held their gazes and smiled. "I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you too, John."

The little boy pouted. "Love me?"

John smiled. "I love you, son."

"Love you, papa!"

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his son's cheek. "I love you, Hamish."

The toddler giggled. "Love you, da!"

**The end.**


End file.
